Valkyrie (Expeditionary Force Book 9) Read online

  “No. Beds, couches, those sort of semi-rigid materials, do not have the flexibility to harm you. If you stayed in bed for several weeks, then I guess eventually a bed could slowly wrap itself around you- No, nope. It can’t do that either. Joe, please accept my apology, and be assured that I am replacing everything aboard this ship that is dangerous to humans. Um, everything I can replace. Some critical materials will simply have to be closely monitored by me or my subminds. I will warn the crew what items to stay away from.”

  “Great. Next, how about you apologize to the crew?”

  “Aw, do I have to?”

  “Yes, you have to.” In my mind I added ‘Or I swear I will stop this car right now’, because that is something my father would say, when my sister and I were arguing during a fun-filled family road trip. I folded arms across my chest. “You do it, right now.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them,” I demanded.

  “Oh, this sucks. I hate my life.”

  “How about you hate this ship’s AI, and use that energy to find a way to fix it?”

  “Working on it,” he said like he was clenching his teeth. “Working on it. Where are you on figuring out something useful for us to do with this ship?”

  “Working on it,” I lied. The truth was, I had actively been trying to avoid thinking about the problem, hoping a solution would magically pop into my head. Unlike all our previous missions, we did not actually have to do anything. Unless we could think of some way to help Earth without exposing our secret early, we could simply wait for the Maxolhx to realize their battlegroup was missing. That would be a long and dull fifteen to twenty months, depending on how long it took the Maxolhx to make decisions and assemble a war fleet, to investigate how and why an entire reinforced battlegroup disappeared. My money was on the kitties reacting quickly. Sure, they would be frightened and worried about so many powerful ships being lost, but they would also not want to appear weak. Hesitation would be seen as weakness by the Rindhalu and more importantly, by the numerous species oppressed by the Maxolhx in their glorious coalition.

  At the point where a war fleet was ready to depart for Earth and our secret no longer mattered, only then could I openly take our mighty Valkyrie into battle on what would certainly be a suicide mission. It would no longer matter whether aliens learned that humans were flying around in a starship. That shocking revelation might even make aliens hesitate to destroy our little planet, buy the people there another couple weeks of life. If necessary, I could jump our battlecruiser right on top of the spacedock where the war fleet was assembled, to detonate our nukes, every weapon we had and the jump drive capacitors. Strike a powerful blow for humanity.

  Until the Maxolhx just assembled another war fleet, and blasted Earth to dust.

  Anyway, our secret was safe, and all I needed to do was think of something useful for our mighty new ship to do, without making the situation worse for Earth.

  It was nice to have only one, simple problem to worry about.

  Which is why the Universe decided to throw another problem at me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Subcaptain Turnell of the Maxolhx Hegemony Fleet waited beside the hatch to the dropship, reminding herself that there was nothing to be concerned about. It was a simple change of command, a ceremony she had attended five times before in her career. Although, this was the first time a new commander had taken over while Turnell was second-in-command of a ship. And there was the complication that Turnell had effectively been in sole command of the patrol cruiser Vortan for two months, since the previous captain had been promoted to a new assignment. Turnell was basically being demoted in favor of the new captain. Because the ship had been hers for two months, any faults the new captain found with the cruiser and its crew would be blamed on Turnell. To make matters worse, the admiral in command of the battlegroup that the Vortan was assigned to did not like Turnell or her extended family, because of a feud that began hundreds of years ago. The whole situation was the worst of all worlds for Turnell, with no upside she could see.

  Her bioneural implant alerted her when the Vortan’s new captain began rising through the lift tube, carried on a suspensor field from the Fleet Personnel office on the twenty-second floor of the headquarters building, to the dropship platforms on the eighty-seventh floor. In seconds, Turnell would see her new commander face to face for the first time. She had never met Illiath, and knew little about the woman, other than that she had been selected for Prospective Command School after service as Subcaptain aboard the battlecruiser Rexakan. Command school was a formality, but selection was a sign the Fleet saw potential in a Subcaptain, an honor Turnell had not yet been awarded. She suspected Admiral Orloth had interjected to keep her name off the PCS nomination list.

  Right on time, Illiath rose into view, and the invisible lift field automatically brought her to a halt and pushed forward to deposit her on the deck. Without any acknowledgment of the miraculous technology that was taken for granted by her society, Illiath strode forward, not needing to look around to identify which of the many dropships was designated to bring her up to meet her new ship. Her bioneural implants drew a faint glow around the proper dropship in her vision, identified the officer waiting for her, and indicated there was additional information available about Subcaptain Turnell.

  Illiath did not need to pull up a data file on her new second-in-command, she had thoroughly researched the woman before requesting command of the Vortan. Despite the poor marks Turnell had received in her personnel record, Illiath considered herself very fortunate to have such a highly-qualified officer as her Subcaptain. The foolish grudge Admiral Orloth held, over a feud whose origins were long-forgotten, had stalled Turnell’s career and now would deprive Orloth of Turnell, Illiath and the Vortan.

  “Commander Illiath,” Turnell came to attention and snapped a salute. Her right arm was held beside her head, palm open, claws extended. The significance of the gesture was not the open palm showing that Turnell was not holding a weapon. It was a subordinate officer showing her claws, meaning that she was ready and willing to fight under her superior officer’s command.

  Illiath returned the salute, though her fist was clenched, as she was the superior officer. The clenched fist indicated that Illiath would decide when to fight. The salutes were symbolic, but they were so automatic that neither woman gave the gestures any thought. “Subcaptain Turnell. We are ready for flight?”

  The question only slightly startled Turnell, but it did was unusual. “You do not wish to inspect the craft and flight crew?”

  “No,” Illiath said with a curt shake of her head, her tight smile exposing just a hint of her fangs. “We do not have time for useless formalities. Ceremonies can wait until after we have departed spacedock and jumped away.”

  That very much startled Turnell, and for a brief moment, she allowed it to show. Following her new commander into the dropship, she pinged a silent message to the flight crew for immediate departure. The two women sank into seats that wrapped partly around them, and there was a very slight sensation of movement as the dropship lifted from the platform. “Commander, the battlegroup is not scheduled to depart for another sixteen days. Admiral Orloth will insist you report to him for-”

  “Admiral Orloth,” Illiath turned to look her subordinate in the eye. “Is no longer a concern, or an obstacle, to you. Your status report this morning indicated the Vortan is at Condition Two?”

  Turnell’s bioneurals overrode her instinct to swallow nervously and prevented her throat from becoming dry. She had no doubt the commander detected her nervousness despite the advantages offered by technology. “That is true,” she responded, with just a touch of hesitation.

  “Come, Turnell,” Illiath said, and then she did something astonishing.

  She winked.

  Tossing her head back a bit, she actually smiled.

  “I was a Subcaptain until recently. I know what it means when a ship in spacedock reports Condition Two readiness, wh
en the battlegroup has weeks before departure.” She knew the two major warships the battlegroup was built around were still undergoing heavy maintenance, and every ship in the battlegroup had that same information. Cruisers, destroyers and frigates existed to support and protect capital ships, so until the big battlewagons were ready to move out, the smaller ships were not going anywhere. While the lesser ships were officially required to maintain Condition Two, everyone knew that often meant not all supplies were stowed away, missile magazines might still need to be topped off, and crews recalled from liberty or assignments dirtside. “How long before we can cut lines,” she meant release the umbilical cables that supplied spacedock power, “and fly? If we’re light on supplies that is not a problem. Our first destination will be Detlow, we can stock up there.”

  To her credit, Turnell did not need to look up the information, she had it available. “We have nineteen crewmembers dirtside. I can issue a recall order and have them aboard within,” she did pause briefly to ask the bioneural computer link in her head for an estimate. “Five hours.”

  “Very well,” Illiath seemed pleased by the answer. “Do it. Turnell, good work. If my commander had surprised me with such a request, I would have panicked.”

  “You?” Turnell was surprised, and wary. Such an admission of uncertainty, admission of weakness, was unusual in Maxolhx society. Doubly so in the military.

  “Of course, I would not have shown it,” Illiath smiled again.

  Keeping her eyes forward, Turnell considered what she knew of her ship’s new commander. Illiath had received outstanding marks on all her records, and had moved upward to command with impressive speed. Either she had strong patrons, something unlikely given her family’s average standing, or she really was such a rising star that the Fleet had been forced to acknowledge her potential. “Commander, may I inquire about our orders?” She knew the orders would be transmitted to her prior to departure, as the Subcaptain was required to confirm all changes in orders. She was confused. The Vortan was a patrol cruiser, a vessel designed to range far from the battlegroup, looking for targets the big ships could deal with. Patrol cruisers were lightly armed but reasonably well protected. Sending a patrol cruiser out ahead of the battlegroup was not unusual, but the battlegroup was not going in the direction of the Detlow star system, so why was the Vortan flying there? And why was Admiral Orloth no longer someone that either of them needed to be concerned about?

  “You will receive the full order package later, along with official transfers. Vortan is being detached from the battlegroup, on independent command.”

  Turnell could not help turning toward and gaping at her new commanding officer. Independent command, especially for a cruiser captain, was a dream come true. For such a prize to be given to a newly-appointed commander was nearly unheard of. “Ma’am?”

  “You heard correctly, Subcaptain. We, more accurately I, am being tasked with verifying the information we recently received from the Bosphuraq. That is why I requested the Vortan, as a patrol cruiser it is capable of long flights without needing to be attached to a star carrier.”

  Turnell’s excitement dropped when she heard their mission would be a dull matter of transporting the commander around the galaxy, so she could spend days or weeks reviewing data packages. Although, why did Illiath need a starship for that tedious task? Surely the data could be reviewed anywhere. “Verifying, Ma’am?”

  Illiath looked down at her right hand and flicked her claws out. “Subcaptain, the strategic situation in the galaxy has been stable for millennia. A few star systems may shift back and forth between our coalition and the enemy. One client species may temporarily gain an advantage over another. But overall, nothing important has changed. Until now. A wormhole has gone offline, without its dormancy being triggered by a shift in the local network.”

  Turnell knew about the anomalous wormhole, but she did have to request her implant to recall the details. “The wormhole that leads to the planet of the humans?”

  “Yes.” Illiath retracted her claws. “The humans are of no importance,” she sniffed. “Understanding why that one wormhole went offline is of vital importance.”

  “Several other wormholes have exhibited odd behavior,” Turnell stated. “They are close to, or within our territory.”

  “Yes, but the wormhole leading to the human planet,” Illiath could not remember the name of that unimportant world, and she did not care enough to inquire. “Was the first. It might be vital to understand why the disruptive behavior began. My previous assignment was as Subcaptain of the battlecruiser Rexakan, under Commander Komatsu. He sought to be involved in the analysis of that first wormhole. That is why the Rexakan is attached to the battlegroup that is now on its way to,” in a flash, she recalled the name of the planet. “Earth. Data brought back by that battlegroup, will be compared to data that has been collected about oddly-behaving wormholes closer to home territory.”

  “How is your investigation related to anomalous wormholes?”

  Illiath did not answer directly. “Do you remember the Fleet’s pursuit of a mystery ship, one that supposedly had the signature of a Thuranin star carrier?”

  “Yes.” The Vortan had been involved in the pursuit and later the blockade, in the effort to chase, isolate, and capture that mystery ship.

  “That one ship evaded our fleet, plus substantial numbers of Thuranin and Bosphuraq ships. The mystery ship got away, and somehow broke an Elder wormhole. That wormhole is still considered unsafe for transit. The ability to disrupt, to manipulate, an Elder wormhole, is a major change in the strategic balance of power.”

  “Fleet Intelligence now believes that mystery ship was controlled by the Bosphuraq,” Turnell merely reported what she had been told. “The same rogue faction of Bosphuraq who destroyed the first two ships we sent to Earth.” The Vortan’s crew had been eager for the battlegroup to finish refit and go back into action, before the effort to punish the Bosphuraq was halted. Now the crew would be severely disappointed to learn they would not be participating in strikes against their traitorous clients at all. That would negatively impact morale. Crew morale, readiness and proficiency was the responsibility of the Subcaptain, which meant more work for Turnell.

  “That is the official analysis from Fleet Intelligence,” Illiath agreed. “Privately, there are many in our leadership who are skeptical the Bosphuraq could have been involved. Our clients simply do not possess technology at that level. We do not have such technology. The odds are greatly against the Bosphuraq having achieved a major technological breakthrough, and it would be almost impossible for them to hide such a massive research effort from our monitoring systems. Someone broke an Elder wormhole, someone possibly has been manipulating other Elder wormholes, and someone destroyed two of our warships.”

  Turnell considered that their mission might actually be interesting. Even better, a successful investigation could be very good for her career. “If the Bosphuraq were not responsible, then, who?”

  “I do not know,” Illiath looked away, getting one last look at the vast city sprawled beneath their rapidly climbing dropship. “But we are going to find out.”

  Going to the ship’s medical bay, which I dreaded, was no big deal. Doctor Skippy had a medical bot waiting in the corridor and it quickly scanned me, injected something I probably didn’t want to think about into my neck, and sent me away. The crew was lined up in the medical bay or the corridors outside, comparing injuries and swapping stories. As Skippy had reported, no one had life-threatening injuries, and everyone should recover quickly. He had apologized to many of the crew but not all, and I quietly reminded him that I would be checking that he kept his promise later.

  My next stop was the bridge, to relieve the duty crew there. No way was I getting back to sleep anyway. While walking down the tall, wide passageway to the bridge, trying not to think about how my throat had suddenly gone numb from nerve-blocking nanomachines, Nagatha contacted me. “Colonel Bishop, I know Skippy has already told
you how grateful I am for your quick thinking, but I simply must thank you myself,” she gushed breathlessly.

  “Uh, that’s great, but it wasn’t my quick thinking. Frey sounded the alarm.”

  “Hmm. Joseph, dear, we must be speaking of different incidents. Captain Frey was the first to alert Skippy to the problem aboard Valkyrie. However, I am referring to how you saved the Flying Dutchman.”

  “Uh, what?” I replied stupidly, while suspiciously wondering what the hell Skippy had done, or not done. “Nagatha, Skippy did not say anything to me about you being grateful about anything.”

  “Oh, he did not?” Nagatha is an AI, really an overgrown submind according to Skippy, but she was excellent at mimicking the speech patterns of a human woman. Her tone of voice was exactly what a woman would use, when her boyfriend or husband commented on how hot another woman was. It meant Skippy was in big trouble, and had some ‘splainin’ to do. “Excuse me for a moment, Joseph.”

  “UGH,” Skippy immediately groaned into my earpiece. “Duuuuude, what the hell did you do? You totally screwed me over. Not cool, that was not cool.”

  Anticipating a long angry rant from the beer can, I paused outside the bridge where hopefully people couldn’t hear me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do not play innocent with me, you jackass. You know exactly what you did. Nagatha just yelled at me, again, for a freakin’ hour.”

  “Oh.” Sophisticated AIs could have long conversations in a microsecond of human time. “Hey, it would help if I knew what she yelled at you about.”

  “Why does that-”

  “Because if she has a good reason for being pissed at you, and she always has a good reason, then this is all your fault, not mine.”

  “She totally does not have a good reason for yelling at me.”

  Somehow, I suspected that was not one hundred percent true. “Then I am terribly sorry, and I will speak to her about it.”